


Floriography

by Frenchmeister



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley reads a book, Crowley uses he/him pronouns even as Nanny Ashtoreth, Dom/sub Undertones, God uses 'they/them' pronouns, If you've seen THAT vid you know why that requires a tag, Light Angst, M/M, Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), Philodendron pollination, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), The Bentley Ships It (Good Omens), The Bentley is also a little bitch, Warlock is actually a pretty decent kid most of the time, Warlock ships it too, just for the sake of consistency and clarity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-10-29 06:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20791811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frenchmeister/pseuds/Frenchmeister
Summary: During the Victorian era, a secret language of flowers was developed so people could subtly communicate their feelings and thoughts without ever exchanging a word. Too bad a certain someone slept through the entire 19th century and didn't get the memo.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic's rated T, but there's nothing THAT inappropriate for children beyond a bit of floral phallic imagery and a couple of very broad descriptions of lust toward the end.

It started only a few weeks after the supposed Antichrist's fifth birthday. It had seemed innocent enough at the time. 

Aziraphale had actually been hired first, as the Dowlings wanted the yard to stay meticulous right after moving into the new estate, but took their time interviewing all their prospects when it came to finding a nanny. Only the best (or best at miracling the competition into saying the wrong thing, falling suddenly ill, forgetting about the interview…) for little Warlock, after all. 

“And this is Brother Francis, the groundskeeper. He's in charge of keeping this entire property in top condition,” Mr. Dowling said, gesturing to a man with frighteningly large teeth and a mop of hair that looked far from a picture of angelic beauty and grace for the first time Crowley could recall. My, but Aziraphale went all out on his disguise this time. 

“Ah! For you, my lady,” the man said, producing a white carnation from within the basket in his arms and holding it out to Crowley with a little bow. 

Crowley blinked at Aziraphale for a moment before hesitantly taking the flower. What the heaven was he supposed to do with that? Not wanting to disturb his hat or carefully pinned hair, he settled for slipping it into his buttonhole like a boutonniere. 

“Oh...Thank you, Brother Francis. Pleasure meeting you” he finally murmured. It wasn't what he wanted to say (which would have been more along the lines of “what the bloody hell are you playing at, angel?”), but there was no use in looking rude or ungracious in front of his new employers. He’d save that for when he was alone with Warlock.

From there it became a regular, if infrequent, occurrence. Whenever Aziraphale crossed paths with Crowley while he was out with Warlock, he just happened to have a blossom or sprig of some kind to gift Nanny Ashtoreth. 

Crowley had long since written it off as a bizarre little idiosyncrasy Aziraphale had picked for this Brother Francis character of his, not really caring enough to question him during their biweekly meetups. He simply tucked it behind his ear or through his buttonhole or into the band on his hat and went on with his day. 

* * *

The flower-giving escalated on Warlock's seventh birthday. Despite his constant presence in Warlock's life, Crowley didn't actually _ like _groups of young children all that much, nor was he particularly good at controlling them, especially when he had spent the past few years encouraging Warlock to act like a spoiled little brat. 

He had been tasked with single-handedly watching over a dozen _ other _ spoiled little brats as well, and it showed. His pantyhose were torn (from tackling a young girl to the ground before she could stab a boy with a fork because he got a slice of cake before her), his favorite tweed jacket was smeared with shockingly green frosting (from landing on the cake slice that was being fought over), his shins were battered and bruised (from being whacked with a baseball bat _ multiple times _during the whole piñata business [he strongly suspected it was on purpose by the time the fourth kid hit him]), and his new bespoke hat was likely ruined (by a young boy who poured soda on him for seemingly no real reason at all). 

The worst of it could be miracled away once he was behind closed doors, but the aching joints and bone-deep weariness were going to last. Surely his work here was done already, no? That kid and his awful friends were clearly rotten to the core, and honestly, the Apocalypse sounded pretty damn good compared to the thought of another day like this one. 

He limped and dragged himself to his room after finally getting a bouncing-off-the-walls Warlock to fall asleep, which was a Herculean task in and of itself, only to find a bouquet of pink and yellow tulips outside his door. 

There was a note nestled among the flowers, written in a familiar copperplate script with a fountain pen. 

_ C— _

_ You looked like you could use a bit of a pick-me-up. He appreciates you, even if he has an odd way of showing it sometimes, I assure you. He speaks highly of you when we're together. Keep up the good work, old friend! _

_ —A _

“Ooh, secret admirer?” one of the maids, Maggie, teased as she passed by. 

“No, just a...friend,” Crowley answered, running his fingers over the twine holding the bunch together. Aziraphale would never will something like that into place. No, he must have gone through the trouble to cut all of these flowers, wrap them up, and carefully tie a little bow before sitting down to hand write the note. The man cared a tad _ too _ much about the little things, sometimes. 

“If you say so.” Maggie winked obnoxiously, adding in a staged whisper, “We all know that crazy old coot is sweet on you, love. I don't know how you can stand being around him, honestly.” 

“You don't know _anything_ about Brother Francis,” Crowley hissed, stepping into his room and slamming the door in Maggie’s face. In retrospect, he concluded just milliseconds after it clicked shut, such a defensive response would probably just lead to gossip between Maggie and her friends in the staff. People would suspect him of having low enough standards to sleep with a man who looked like _that_, when Crowley had gone through so much trouble to give off constant “capable of stealing your girl _ and _your man, but miles out of everyone's league” vibes, and that was a right shame. 

Oh, well. Humans couldn't understand the depths of a six thousand year bond even if they tried. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got the whole thing written, but I'll be publishing the chapters over the course of a few days as I edit them. I think they'll all be ~1-2k words each? And currently the whole work is around 13k even though my original intention was to keep it around 5k :/


	2. Chapter 2

“Ugh,” Crowley groaned, rolling his neck from side to side and revelling in the series of satisfying pops that resulted as he stepped outside. Finally, home free!

Part of his initial agreement (well, not _ initial _ initial, but initial once Crowley had slipped some key phrases into the contract) with the Dowlings was a stipulation that he have one day off a week. Not off the clock but still staying on the grounds and technically available to help in the case of an emergency, but truly off. Unavailable by phone, unknown in his whereabouts. _ Unreachable. _

Unfortunately, his freedom came more than three hours later than normal. Warlock had been to yet another ridiculously expensive birthday party (honestly, how many friends could one child have??) and came home absolutely hyped up on sugar and overstimulation after flying to Disneyland Paris and back via private jet. Getting him to bed was a _ nightmare. _Every time Crowley thought for sure he'd tired himself out, Warlock would appear behind him asking for water, or the blue light of a muted television would start to glow through the crack under his door, or he'd hear the thumping and banging of the boy getting up and doing Satan knows what in his room.

Crowley checked his watch, growling at the late hour. If he rushed home (as if there was any other possible way for him to drive), he could still have a glass of whiskey and watch trash TV, sleep for his usual 14 hours, and have time to check up on his plants and meet up with Aziraphale for dinner, but he’d have to sacrifice his mid afternoon nap, and that wouldn’t do at all. Maybe he could sleep for only 12 hours, and save the drinking for the next day? Multitasking was an option. The last time he’d tended to his plants while he was drunk, though, his yelling had devolved into angry sobbing, and he wasn’t sure that left _ quite _the right impression on them. In his hazy memory, they just seemed intensely uncomfortable.

He made a beeline for his Bentley, kicking an errant stone in frustration on the way. It soared through the air before landing near the greenhouse. He geared up for another shot, only to freeze as he took a closer look at said greenhouse.

From somewhere within its depths, a dim light shone through the whitewashed walls. What in the world could Aziraphale be doing this late at night?

Crowley scoffed. Something ridiculous, he was sure. Or maybe he just forgot to turn off the light as he left? It was unlike the angel, but not _ totally _outside the realm of possibility, he supposed.

Turning back toward his car, Crowley tried not to care. Really, he did. But what if something was wrong? He couldn’t feel a demonic presence nearby, or angelic, for that matter, but humans could cause trouble, too. Maybe a petty thief snuck in, knocked Aziraphale out before he had a chance to perform a miracle.

It was a silly idea. Outlandish, even. And yet he slunk closer to the greenhouse anyways, just in case, because he’d never met someone more outlandish than Aziraphale.

Cautiously, he opened the door and slipped inside. “...Angel?” he whisper-shouted. “Is everything— Oh, sweet Lucifer!”

Rounding the corner, he spotted the angel, who was busily stroking the most phallic looking plant he'd ever seen. His hands were covered in some sort of whitish substance, and _ sticky _.

“Oh! Crowley! You gave me quite a fright there, my dear boy. What are you doing here?”

“...What are _ you _doing here?” Crowley sputtered, gesturing wildly at whatever obscene, midnight, flora-based activity was going on before him.

“Cross pollinating the philodendrons!” Aziraphale answered, seemingly oblivious to Crowley’s distress. He had dropped the disguise, although he was still wearing Brother Francis’s ugly smock. “Mr. Dowling has some prize winning ones, and he's hoping to breed a new cultivar. I've had to do all kinds of research on their reproduction, and it’s truly _ fascinating _. They're usually pollinated by beetles, see.”

“Beetles,” Crowley parroted robotically, eyes glued to Aziraphale's hand. It was still going, collecting what was presumably handfuls of pollen in a plastic container and coincidentally resurrecting all _ sorts _ of feelings Crowley thought he had long since beaten into submission.

“And they only open a few nights a year, and only in the dead of night. And they attract the beetles by generating an _ enormous _ amount of heat! You would not _ believe _how hot they get! Here, feel it!”

With that, he grabbed Crowley's hand and pressed his palm to the flower, where Crowley curled his fingers around it by instinct. It _ was _ hot. 

Aziraphale continued to prattle on about bugs and pheromones, but Crowley couldn't spare a single brain cell to listen, not when his hand was wrapped around a warm, delicately curved, 10 inch long phallus with his crush's guidance. 

He tuned in just in time to catch Aziraphale say, “So you’ll take it?”

“Ngk,” he choked out. “I mean, huh?”

“One of the philodendrons,” Aziraphale chuckled, finally releasing Crowley's wrist. “Mr. Dowling propagated this one a number of times via clippings. I hardly think he'll notice if one goes missing, and I know how much you love your plants.”

“Uh,” Crowley said dumbly, pulling his hand back. Now _ he _was sticky and covered in fine white powder, complete with a handprint embossed on his forearm. “You sure that's not theft? Pretty sure your lot aren't supposed to participate in that sort of thing.”

“Nonsense. The greenhouse is getting too crowded as it is. Anyhow, I picked this one out just for you.” He disappeared around the corner, only to come right back with a small, immature philodendron in a terracotta pot. “It's not quite as robust as some of the others, but I know you have a knack for whipping plants into shape. I want you to have it.”

He pressed the pot into Crowley's hands, refusing to take “no” for an answer. And really, Crowley didn’t stand a chance against those puppy dog eyes, not after Aziraphale had so profoundly fried his brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9CyviFJ8zDs) the video in question, if you haven't seen it. They mention moths, but beetles seem to be more common pollinators according to my limited research (Confession time: I know nothing about plants except for the carnivorous ones!). Sorry if my inaccuracies offended anybody lol.


	3. Chapter 3

“Why hello there, Miss Ashtoreth,” Aziraphale said, tipping his shabby little hat. There was a lopsided ring of white and yellow flowers around the brim today for some reason. “Time for Warlock's piano lessons already? My, how time flies.”

“Hey, Frankie!" Crowley answered with a smirk. "Still aiming to become the next Disney princess, I see."

He gestured with his parrot-headed umbrella at the squirrels and birds behind the gardener, instinctively flocking to such an innate source of love and safety. [1] “Good thing Warlock knows that the villains are always the coolest.” He gave the kid a wink and a nudge for good measure, noticing a similar ring of flowers around his head.

“As I've said before Miss Ashtoreth, it's Francis. _ Please. _” He gave Crowley a rather forced smile. “And—”

"No, no, I'm good with Frankie." None of his previous attempts to make Aziraphale break character had worked yet, but he wasn't going to let that stop him from trying to get on the angel's nerves.

“Ahem. As I was saying. The animals know that I'm their friend, that's all. Just as they know young Master Warlock is their friend, yes?”

Warlock sighed, but ultimately nodded. “Yes, I'm their friend, Brother Francis.”

“And what about you, Miss Ashtoreth?”

“Me? Oh no, I'm no friend of theirs. They know better than to come near me.”

“Nonsense, they just need a little incentive! Here, take this,” Aziraphale said, picking up a bundle of flowers from the blanket he'd been sitting on with Warlock.

“Francis made that one specially for you, Nanny!”

Crowley sighed in a very put upon manner. “Oh. I suppose I _ have _ to put it on then, don't I?”

“Yeah!”

Crowley carefully removed his hat, running a hand over his hair to smooth it out. It took him ages to get the curls just right every morning, and he wasn’t too keen on messing them up for five minutes of amusement on Warlock’s part. If only he had a mirror...

“Here, allow me.” Aziraphale stepped forward, allowing Crowley to get a good look at the crown that was soon to be his for the first time. Whereas he and Warlock had simple chains of daisies, dandelions, and clover, the one in his hands had fragrant little blooms of jasmine and honeysuckle woven into it.

On his tiptoes, he draped the ring of flowers on Crowley's head, rearranging it until it was nice and even. No sooner had he had stepped back and nodded in approval than a delicate, pale blue butterfly landed in Crowley's hair.

“There,” Aziraphale said. “Now you look fit to be a Disney princess yourself.”

“Mmm, and I suppose that makes you my Prince Charming?”

It was meant to be a sardonic jab, but Aziraphale was smiling at him with open affection, and at such close range, it was easy to ignore the goofy disguise he conjured around himself every day. His eyes were still the same as ever, still twinkling and mirthful and brilliantly blue. Still _ angelic _ . Hit with an intense pang of longing, Crowley had instead spoke in the kind of soft, flirtatious murmur usually reserved for couples reclining on pillows and sweat-damp sheets instead.

Aziraphale inhaled sharply, opened his mouth to speak.

_ Fuck. Now you've gone and done it, Crawly. Here comes the part where he says "Wait, you're not seriously hitting on _ ** _me_ ** _ , an _ ** _angel of the Lord_ ** _ , are you? _ ** _You? _ ** _ The lowly _ ** _serpent?_ ** _ " _

“Then _ I'm _ the evil stepmother! Die, princess!”

Warlock, with a child's typical inability to read the damn room, picked up a stick and jabbed it into Crowley's ribs, cackling with glee. “The throne is mine, all mine!”

Crowley swooned and collapsed to his knees, silently vowing to give Warlock as many sweets as he liked today. “No, Stepmother! Please! I beg of you!”

“Begging won't help you now! There's only room for _ one _ member of the royal family in this kingdom. Any last words?” He brandished his “sword” and aimed it at Crowley's throat.

“Noooo!! Please, I'll do anything! Anything you want!”

Aziraphale seemed a little disturbed by the morbid turn their game had taken as the two of them continued to play, but he still smiled as he watched them, even as Crowley died rather dramatically after being stabbed in the kidney.

After that, he couldn’t really say where Aziraphale went. It sounded like he might have left already, but every time he tried to crack an eye open and look around or open his mouth to ask how much longer this game was going to go on for, Warlock yelled at him to stop squirming because “dead people can't move, Nanny!”

Warlock was busy preparing the princess's funeral, an elaborate affair staged to convince the peasants in the kingdom that the queen was innocent. When all was said and done, Crowley was lying on the blanket with coins over his eyes and his head pillowed on Warlock's artfully arranged jacket.

Warlock clapped his hands together. “Alright, time for the funeral.”

"Wait!"

Aziraphale's familiar footsteps came jogging up, and he continued, slightly out of breath, “Can't have a funeral without flowers, Master Warlock!”

Without warning, Aziraphale's hands were wrapped around his again, unbearably soft and warm. Crowley scarcely suppressed a shiver as a bundle of flowers was pressed into his hands.

“There, she looks beautiful now.” Aziraphale brushed an errant curl off his forehead and smoothed out his skirt, and then he was gone, his hand leaving Crowley's thigh and temple burning pleasantly in its wake.

He may have dodged a bullet today, Crowley realized, but _ heaven, _was he in over his head.

* * *

1Aziraphale's animal magnetism had ceased being cute to Crowley right around the time dying of the Black Death was becoming the next big fad in Europe. They might not have known yet about the fleas or the virus, but it didn't take a genius to realize that rodents were carrying disease and filth with them.  [return to text ]


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, but one that features snake!Crowley to make up for it.

“Oh, wow! A  _ snake!  _ Look, Brother Francis! It's  _ huge!” _

Inwardly, Crowley scoffed. He wasn't even a meter long at the moment. Warlock would probably have an absolute  _ fit _ if he saw him at his full length.  


“Oh! Please be careful, Master Warlock,” Aziraphale called out, his voice clearly tinged with worry. “She's not poisonous, and she's just minding her own business. No need to cut off her head or anything! Let's just, er, respect Sister Snake's boundaries and give her some space.”  


Well, that was a bit melodramatic. He'd been encouraging Warlock to act up and expect the world to be handed to him on a silver platter, not to go around slaughtering innocent animals for fun. Honestly, what did Aziraphale think he was teaching the boy?  


Warlock rolled his eyes. “It's  _ venomous _ , not poisonous. And why would I cut off its head? Look at it, that thing is  _ awesome!  _ And it's so pretty, too!”  


Crowley preened at the compliments, and if the look Aziraphale shot him from behind Warlock's back was anything to go by, his reptilian face somehow managed to convey his smugness to the angel.  


“Yes, well, I'm sure she's very proud of her shiny scales, and I'm glad you're not afraid of her. It's important to respect  _ all _ living creatures, even the ones you don't like very much, but it's even better to learn to love them all. Now come along, I have a surprise for you. Maybe Sister Snake will even join us.”  


As Warlock bounced along after the gardener trying to guess what the surprise was, Crowley slithered a little ways behind them. Truth be told, he was here for the surprise, too. He could tell Aziraphale had been working on something for the past few days, and curiosity had gotten the better of him even though he had a rare afternoon off and ought to be out wreaking mild havoc elsewhere. [2]

“Through here. Come, come,” Aziraphale said, ushering Warlock through a slight break in the tall hedges that seemed to have miraculously appeared on the edge of the Dowling property overnight.  


“Woah,” Warlock breathed as he passed through.  


Woah, indeed. Within the wall of hedges laid a splendor of greenery and flowers, a private little Eden of Aziraphale's making.  


“Do you like it? I thought you might like a secret garden of your own, for when Nanny Ashtoreth reads to you and helps you with your lessons out on that picnic blanket. Has she read that book to you yet,  _ The Secret Garden? _ ”  


“Uh uh.” Warlock didn't even bother to turn around to answer, too busy exploring.  


“Well, maybe you should suggest she read it to you in here. I think you'd like it,” he said, smiling at Crowley as he too checked out the garden.  


It was strangely reminiscent of his earliest times on Earth, back when he and Aziraphale were still both sticking close to Eden and enjoying the splendors of Mesopotamia. Almost none of these plants could possibly grow in late autumnal England without a little angelic aid. There were hyacinths, crocuses, mandrakes, a few flowers he recognized but never learned the names of, a multitude of fruit trees that were somehow obscured from outside the hedges…and was that a  _ henna _ tree?  


Crowley slithered over, tongue flicking out to get a better taste of the air. It  _ was  _ a henna tree! He hadn't seen one in over a thousand years, and he'd forgotten how  _ heavenly _ they smelled. He worked his way up the trunk and settled into a fork near the top to bask in the sunshine and heady scent.  


“Woah, I guess that snake  _ did _ follow us,” Warlock said, turning around and spotting Crowley's iridescent black scales just a few inches from Aziraphale's face. “Uh...Are you  _ sure _ it's not venomous?” He cautiously edged over to Crowley to get a better look, carefully positioning Aziraphale between the two of them.

“Oh, she looks harmless enough to me,” Aziraphale said softly, boldly reaching out to stroke Crowley's sinuous length with his fingertips a few times.  


It felt...odd, but definitely not bad. If he were in his human form, Crowley would have perhaps shuddered with unexpected pleasure. If he were a cat, he probably would have purred and arched up into the touch.  


But seeing as he was a snake, an animal whose physiology wasn't exactly equipped to respond positively to physical affection, he just relaxed further into a puddle of drowsy coils and let his pupils dilate from slits to open discs.  


Aziraphale seemed to get the message, at least. “I think our friend is falling asleep,” he chuckled. “Why don't we leave her be and check up on Brother Robin and Brother Dove?” he asked, gesturing to the birds that were now making themselves at home in the garden, too.  


Crowley fell asleep within minutes, lulled by the dreamy, familiar perfume in the air and Aziraphale’s lilting voice as he told Warlock about the adventures of Gilgamesh.

* * *

2Truth be told, he probably would have spent such an unseasonably warm day napping in the Dowlings’s sunroom in his snake form anyways. Apart from possibly giving one of the maids a heart attack, he wouldn’t have gotten much work done. At least spying on the opponent was an acceptably demonic activity.  [return to text ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never actually smelled a henna tree, I've just read that they smell good. Presumably, henna trees at least smell better than henna _paste,_ which smells like wet, soggy hay.


	5. Chapter 5

“How was school today?”

Warlock shrugged. “Okay, I guess. It was Angela’s birthday and she brought cupcakes, but they were strawberry flavored, and I _ hate _ strawberry. I did alright on my spelling — _ oh no!” _ he gasped, grabbing Crowley by the arm and dragging him around the side of the building in a rush.

Ever so cautiously, Warlock peeked back around, with Crowley following suit. “See the girl in the green dress? _ That's _Tiffany Reynolds.”

“Mmm. The girl you fancy?”

“Uh huh. She's _ really _pretty,” Warlock breathed before hiding around the corner once more. “I feel like my words always get all mixed up whenever I try to talk to her.”

“Well, you don’t need to talk. You remember what I told you to do?”

Warlock nodded. “Call her names, kick her shins, push her over at recess, especially if there's mud.”

“She's got her hair in a ponytail, too. If you ever get a chance, dip the end of it in ink or paint in art class. _ That'll _be sure to get a reaction!”

“I dunno...Are you _ sure _that'll work? It sounds kind of...mean.”

_ Damn _ that angel and his talk of being nice and respectful to everyone.

“Trust me, every adult in her life will be assuring her you're only doing it because you fancy her. She'll grow to like it, I promise. _ Everyone _knows teasing someone means you fancy them.”

Warlock scrunched up his nose. “You mean like you do to Brother Francis?”

Crowley stood there with his perfectly lipsticked mouth hanging open in a rather unladylike manner, absolutely gobsmacked for a moment. 6000 years and Aziraphale was still utterly clueless. How had a _ child _ figured him out in a blink of an eye?

“What. No. What? No no no no, not like that at all. Ha. Hahah. I do that because I _ don't _like the git, understand?”

“But you just said calling someone names means you fancy them! You call him names and tease him all the time!”

“Well, yes, but it— it's different. _ Totally _different. Not even remotely similar, believe me.”

“But then I don't get how Tiffany'll be able to tell the difference between good teasing and bad—”

“She just _ will, _okay?” Crowley snapped. “You'll just have to trust me on this one, Warlock.”

Warlock sighed and gave a noncommittal shrug. “I guess. Only Brother Francis said I should give her flowers.”

“Of course he did,” Crowley muttered, rolling his eyes. He really threw himself into the whole gardener thing, didn't he? It was all flowers all the time with him these days.

“He said daisies represent romance and purity. Something about a secret flower language, I dunno.”

...Wait.

“A what now?” Crowley asked, whipping his head around so fast he nearly sent his sunglasses flying.

“Yeah, I guess the Victorians used to send special flowers to each other instead of talking because they were all shy? That's what he made it sound like, anyway. Every flower meant something different. That's why he said to give her daisies specifically.”

Huh. A number of stupid fads had thankfully passed him by during his century-long nap, such as the invention of Cockney rhyming slang,[1] tightlaced corsets and 42 centimeter waistlines,[2] and coating everything in arsenic-tinged dye as everyone went bonkers for a particular shade of green.[3] Leave it to Aziraphale to try and keep a dead tradition alive, though. He still harped about the damned gavotte falling out of style once he had enough brandy in him.

But if he knew all about what different flowers supposedly represented, was it possible…?

“Er, Warlock. I think the coast is clear now. What do you say we pop by the library on our way home, maybe check you out a few more books on torture devices to keep you entertained tomorrow? How's that sound?”

* * *

Warlock really wasn't kidding when he said every flower meant something different. Not only did these books list what must have been every flower known to man, but apparently even the color or how they were arranged mattered! The supposed meaning also varied depending on which source you consulted, to make matters worse.

Growling in frustration, Crowley flipped through the pages and tried to remember the myriad of flowers Aziraphale had given him over the last few years. There were some roses, right? Only he couldn't remember if they were orange or coral. And what's the difference, anyhow? And those fluffy white flowers he'd been given that one rainy afternoon, were they peonies or gardenias?

“What the bloody hell is a nasturtium‽” he all but shouted, throwing his hat on the table and wishing he could run his hands through his hair without ruining his perfect finger waves.

The librarian made to shush him, but Crowley glared at her over his glasses, allowing his eyes to peek over their rims.[4]

By the time Warlock came back with his selection, Crowley had a massive pile in front of him — lists of flower species, both exotic and domestic, books on flower symbolism in literature, and tomes on Victorian romanticism.

Warlock sneered as he took in some of the titles on the table. “What are you doing?”

“I'm going to send Brother Francis the rudest message I can manage in a bouquet,” Crowley lied easily. “A good insult like that requires research. Ready to go?”

Bypassing the librarian and her barcode scanner in favor of gradually stuffing all of the books in his bottomless carpetbag when Warlock wasn't looking, he herded the boy toward the exit, eager to get back to London as soon as physically possible. He had a lot of reading to get through once he got home.

* * *

Eleven hours later, sunglasses long since tossed aside and glass of wine fallen by the wayside once he began to realize the severity of the situation, Crowley set down his personal copy of the Holy Bible.

  
“...Well, _ damn. _”

* * *

1His invention, of course, at least as far as Hell was concerned. They still brought it up as a story of success at quarterly meetings sometimes.  [return to text ]

2Another one he claimed, despite his penchant for wearing horrendously uncomfortable swan-bill corsets during the Edwardian era. He was never one to let a good fashion trend pass him by. [return to text ]

3Some things weren’t worth trying to pass off as his own work. Low hanging fruit, and all that.  [return to text ]

4Not enough to scare the daylights out of her, not enough to even confirm anything in her mind, just enough to make her rarely-employed survival instincts sit up and say “no, you shush, idiot!” She kept her head down and ignored him the rest of his time there, too afraid to expose her throat or look him in the eye, but not really sure why. [return to text ]


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer one for you guys, to make up for such a short one last time!

In his haste to put Warlock to bed and get back to his flat, Crowley  _ may  _ have used a little miraculous persuasion to knock him out that evening. In his defense, Warlock was unbearably crabby and clearly in need of a good night’s rest. It was a  _ good  _ deed, practically.

And if he drove even faster than his usual breakneck speeds on his way home...Well, he  _ was _ a demon, after all.  _ Something _ needed to balance out the aforementioned good deed.

Another miracle was required to conceal the decidedly uncool carpetbag as he shed his nanny disguise to become silver-tongued, suave Anthony J. Crowley once more and headed past the doorman and up to his flat, where he promptly locked the door in a small fit of paranoia before dumping everything out on his kitchen counter.

Crowley didn’t cook. Ever. He never saw the point, not when far superior fare could be found elsewhere and his body didn’t actually require food.[1] The flat came with a kitchen, though, full of stainless steel appliances and jet black marble countertops that had sat there collecting dust for years before he took on the role of Nanny Ashtoreth.

These days, it was a practical shrine to Aziraphale, a physical representation of the torch he carried for the angel.

That first flower Aziraphale had given him had almost been tossed once Crowley had retired for the evening, but a rare touch of sentimentality had driven him to keep the gift, to hold onto the carnation until it withered and died before finally relenting and binning it.

Only that never happened.

Five days later, Crowley had his day off, and the carnation was still looking as good as ever. A milk bottle he lifted off someone’s doorstep and filled with tap water served as a makeshift flower holder, and for the past six years, the carnation had been happily in bloom, its petals still soft and supple as they were when Crowley first placed it in his buttonhole.

Nearly every one of the flowers he’d been given over the years had ended up here since, albeit in nicer vases and pots once Crowley realized they weren’t going to be temporary installations, and they were all  _ thriving. _ Apparently, an angel’s touch meant everlasting beauty for the plants, and in the case of the ones planted in soil, new life. They had taken root and continued to grow and bloom and bear impossible fruit.

All this, and Crowley hadn’t had to yell at them  _ once _ .  


He was secretly grateful for it, too. Tending to his plants was actually an effective stress-reducer, agitated as he may have looked to outsiders. But he never would have been able to bring himself to raise his voice at Aziraphale’s flowers, even if they hadn’t all turned out so immaculate, and that was precisely why they were confined entirely to his kitchen.

If his other plants saw him giving any of these ones special treatment, or smiling at his newest addition like a sap, or carefully rearranging them instead of shouting at them to get themselves in order...he shuddered at the thought of what kind of chlorophyll-driven rebellion might occur.

And so, after pouring himself a generous glass of wine and clearing some space on the counter, Crowley sat himself among them and cracked open the first book, eager to see what kind of secret messages Aziraphale might have been sending him.

“Hmm. Well that’s not helpful,” he grumbled, looking at the long list of possible meanings for white carnations. Purity, faithfulness, happiness, good luck, courage, love...Maybe it was intended to wish Crowley good luck at his first day on the job?

_ Or maybe none of them meant anything and you’re just wasting your time. _

Still, he was too curious to give up so soon, so he took a swig of wine and moved onto the next flower he had been given: a Peruvian lily, identified after much cross referencing and studying pictures of all the various types of lilies (and in the process, realizing that it wasn’t technically a lily at all). Unfortunately, that one offered up another confusing mix of what it might symbolize, like friendship, devotion, good fortune, and wealth and prosperity.

“Some language. How was anyone supposed to know what you were trying to say??”

Scanning the room, he decided to look up just the easily recognizable ones, rather than wasting so much effort identifying the thicket of exotic plants surrounding him.

His eyes were drawn to the bouquet Aziraphale had whipped up for his “funeral.” He could already guess that the asphodels represented death, due to their strong association with Hades in ancient Greece. For some reason, he’d gone and stuck a single pink rose in the center, though, whose lively color clashed with the sheaf of sickly yellow flowers and greyish leaves it was nestled in.  


A quick perusal of the books suggested that they carried a potential message of admiration, thankfulness, or secret love, although after some more intense fact-checking it seemed that pink roses could  _ technically  _ be used as funeral flowers, so he supposed it worked, even if it didn’t look good.

What _did_ look good was the bouquet he’d been given after Warlock’s birthday party. Even if he’d never admit aloud to enjoying the bright pink and yellow flowers, he had to admit they looked nice together and had added some cheer to his starkly impersonal kitchen back when they were the only large flower arrangement there. Plus, they were some of the only flowers he could actually name among all the exotic plants filling the room.[2]

He flipped through the books with a sigh. It seemed that they were one of the flowers where color mattered. The general consensus for “tulips, general” was that they represented love, although some books expanded that to “perfect love,” whatever the heaven that meant.

More specifically, however, pink ones stood for caring, platonic or familial love, attachment, and good wishes. Well, it made sense that he gave them to him after a particularly trying day, then. It probably wasn’t even possible for Aziraphale to have any other kind of wishes.

“Yellow tulips traditionally represented hopeful love in Victorian England,” Crowley read aloud, moving on. “Sometimes, they would be sent in the case of unrequited love as well, to say ‘I love you, although I know my feelings are not returned.’”  


He took off his glasses and glared at the bouquet for a moment, as if expecting it to explain itself. He got nothing from the tulips, not one twitch of a leaf.

Scoffing at their naivete, he tossed that book back into the pile and grabbed another one at random. “Well, that doesn’t make any sense. What the h— Wait! ‘There’s sunshine in your smile!’ Hah!” he exclaimed with a whoop. He still didn’t quite understand why Aziraphale would go out of his way to express that particular phrase, given how rarely he smiled, especially as Nanny Ashtoreth, but it fit better than the other one, for sure.  


...Right?

Getting an unpleasant sinking feeling in his empty gut, he quickly checked the meaning of a few others he knew offhand, focusing only on the Victorian interpretation this time.

Dahlias: elegance and dignity, forever thine.

Apricots: diffident love.

Gardenias: secret admiration and love.

Pink camellias: intense desire.

Yellow irises: passion.

Purple calla lillies: passion again.

“Oh, G—  _ Somebody _ ,” Crowley choked out, coming across a passage that suddenly explained his odd collection of “funeral” flowers with startling clarity:  


_ Even when it came to funeral arrangements, the Victorians carefully considered the meaning of each flower they used. For example, a single rose in the bouquet expressed enduring love for the deceased. _

“This— this doesn’t make any  _ sense. _ ” He couldn’t decide if it’d be better to sober up or just get drunker at this point. His head was swimming, his heart pounding, his intestines now writhing around in a sickening combination of anxiety, fear, and hopeful elation.

The Victorians loved their romance, right? And surely, romantic messages would be the most popular ones to send, since sending flowers to your enemy or business associate instead of just writing would be a little strange, right? So, it stood to reason that there would be more flowers with romantic associations than anything else. What if Aziraphale wasn’t thinking about that and had simply giving him flowers, and this was all just a coincidence?

_ What if it wasn’t? _

“Right, okay, okay.  _ Okay. _ ” Crowley took a few deep breaths to center himself, then marched to his desk and scrounged around for some ancient office supplies that were mostly stashed there just for the sake of appearances. He came back armed with a set of highlighters, a multitude of different colored pens, and a notepad. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it  _ right. _

For the next several hours, he methodically looked up each and every flower and plant he’d been given over the past six years and their symbolism, cross referencing every applicable book and taking notes.

The result? It was statistically improbable for it to all just be a coincidence. He’d even go so far as to say it was  _ impossible _ . Even if he didn’t count the ones with more than one meaning, so far the overwhelming majority expressed feelings of secrecy, devotion, close friendship, love, passion, desire,  _ lust _ .

The inclusion of that last one made his heart skip a few beats, his blood unsure where it was supposed to be rushing to due to all the conflicting emotions it conjured up.

Curiously, he couldn’t find any mention of philodendrons in any of the books on floriography, but one plant guide did mention that the name was a combination of “love” and “tree” in Greek, so he supposed that counted.

Besides, that one was a bizarre outlier, caught in a scientifically improbable state of development. It had never grown any bigger, its leaves still shaped like hearts as in all young philodendrons. However, despite its perpetual youthfulness and Aziraphale’s claims that they only bloom a few nights a year, it had quickly begun flowering upon being brought home and had yet to stop. Every night it opened up, radiating heat and sickly sweet pheromones, its cream colored spadix proudly jutting up from the delicate folds. By this late point in the evening, the smell was so thick on his forked tongue he could hardly think.

“This is ridiculous.” Crowley got up to pace around the kitchen, tugging at his hair. “All these years he’s acted completely oblivious, and now I’m supposed to believe he’s been sending me secret love notes?? And you!” he shouted, whirling around to jab an accusatory finger at the little philodendron, which perked up at the attention. “If this is all true, then you— that— You’re just  _ obscene! _ ” If anything, it stood even straighter.

“ _ Ugh. _ ” He sneered at the plant in disgust, then threw open one of the windows to air out the room so he could continue reading “Floriography: An Exploration of Flowers as Metaphors in Victorian England.” It was a short book, but horrendously dry and lacking an index to skip to the relevant parts, and therefore mind-numbingly boring to Crowley.

_ The Victorians were far from the only ones to attribute special meaning to flowers, however. There is a long history of humans using flowers to represent their feelings, especially in prose. Shakespeare ascribed emblematic meanings to flowers, especially in Hamlet, for example. In the Old Testament, plants and flowers are frequently used as symbols, most notably in the Song of Solomon. _

Wait. Song of Solomon.  _ Song of Solomon.  _ That sounded awfully familiar.  


Despite Crowley’s claims that he never read, that wasn’t exactly accurate. He didn’t read for leisure, or to the sheer staggering extent that Aziraphale did, but he _did_ read when it personally benefited him. For example, when he realized he could utilize obscure, offensive quotes like Ezekiel 23:20[3] or Genesis 19:36[4] to start arguments with those who used the Bible to justify being a terrible person, he immediately read the thing cover to cover and took notes.

He walked to his bedroom, grabbed his tattered, dogeared copy of the Bible from the short stack of books on his nightstand[5], and returned to his barstool, flipping through the Old Testament until he found what he was looking for.

Ah, now he remembered. The entire chapter was just a long description of how much some unnamed couple loved each other, both romantically and sexually. Unusual for the Bible, for sure, but refreshingly sweet and pure rather than violentl and depraved.

He skimmed through quickly, taking note of all the plants mentioned. Apple trees, crocuses, pomegranate trees, lilies of the valley, mandrakes, henna blossoms.

_ Henna blossoms. _

With a start, he thought back to the garden Aziraphale had made, doing a quick inventory of the plants in there. Sure enough, nearly every single one was directly mentioned in the Song of Songs. Aziraphale had cultivated a private garden for him to use and deliberately filled it with flowers and fruit trees from the most ostensibly romantic and least godly book of the Bible.

“...Well,  _ damn. _ ”

That settled it, he supposed. Everything else  _ might  _ have been a very large coincidence, but there was no way in heaven this one was.

So. Aziraphale loved him, desired him,  _ lusted _ after him, and thought he’d tell him in some kind of obscure code and just let Crowley look like a fool for being none the wiser.

“This— this is—  _ aaaagh! _ ” Crowley growled, kicking over the barstool and gathering up as many of the books as he could carry in his arms. “That damned angel. I’ve been pining for  _ centuries _ . Nearly 6000 years I’ve been falling for him, and he has the— the  _ audacity _ to tell me my feelings are reciprocated while hiding behind tulips and daisies? No, I won’t stand for it. I  _ won’t _ .”

He stomped all the way out to his car, chucked the books in the backseat, and took off, hellbent on getting a good explanation for Aziraphale’s actions.

* * *

1Unless he was meeting with Aziraphale or hit with a specific craving, laziness won out and he actually skipped eating altogether most days. He didn’t tell the angel that, though, lest he faint with a case of the vapours at the thought of missing a meal _voluntarily_. [return to text ]

2Ah, tulips. Now _there_ was an easy one to identify. He knew that flower like the back of his hand after working so hard to fuel their ridiculous popularity in the 1600s, just for fun. Using them as currency had been his ingenious idea. If he’d known that people were sending ambiguous, occasionally conflicting messages that were bound to start fights and sow discord with the flowers just a few centuries later, he probably could have taken credit for that too, but alas. [return to text ]

3There she lusted after her lovers, whose genitals were like those of donkeys and whose emission was like that of horses. [return to text ]

4So both of Lot's daughters became pregnant by their father. [return to text ]

5Contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t a holy object that could harm demons. Humans tended to forget that _they_ were the ones who wrote and edited and translated it dozens of times over, and in doing so, grossly misrepresented events and interjected their own personal biases during interpretation. The whole thing was utter garbage. He could get over Satan ultimately getting all the credit for Eve biting the apple, but his name didn’t come up even once, for hell’s sake! Him, one of the few demons assigned to Earth full time since the dawn of Man! You’d think he’d get an honorable mention, at the very least![6]

6Okay, maybe he was still a _little_ bit bitter about the whole Eden thing. [return to text ]


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not only is this a longer chapter, but the footnotes bring it up to close to 3K words lmao. My apologies to anyone who prefers chapters under 2K.

As much as he wanted to make a dramatic entrance and screech to a halt outside Aziraphale’s door, Crowley really didn’t want to wake the Dowlings up and have to explain why an angry man who looked vaguely like their nanny was in their yard at four o’clock in the morning.[1] Instead, he slowed to a crawl until he reached the groundskeeper’s quarters and silently closed the door behind him as he got out.

He slunk over to the cottage’s door and unlocked it with a snap of his fingers, the deadbolt muffled with a minor miracle. Then, careful not to make a sound, he walked inside, slipped off his shoes, and padded over to the sitting room, where he knew Aziraphale would still be up. [2]

He was engrossed in his book with his back turned to Crowley, wearing his functionless reading glasses and sipping hot cocoa out of his winged mug and generally just looking all-around adorable. _ Bastard. _

_ “Aziraphale!!” _Crowley shouted, tossing the books at the coffee table in front of him with a clatter and watching with joy as the angel shrieked and tossed the cocoa across the room. “What exactly is the meaning of this?”

“Good _ Lord _ , Crowley, wh—” He cut himself off with a sharp gasp. “Oh, oh _ no _ , all their spines have been broken! Did you do that? And you highlighted and dogeared the pages! Oh, Crowley, those are _ library _ books! Other people have to—”

“Not the state of them, angel. The _ content _,” he spat.

“The content? What? I don’t...Oh, dear,” Aziraphale whispered, glancing over the highlighted portions and clearly realizing he had been caught.

“Yeah, _ oh, dear _. When were you planning on telling me, huh, angel? Thought you’d just speak some foreign language, say it to my face while laughing about how clueless I was?”

“Oh, Crowley, _ no. _ It’s not like that. I was never laughing at you, I...I was just being cowardly, I suppose,” Aziraphale answered, looking and sounding as though tears were on their way. “I was afraid of how you’d react after all these years, or how our relationship might change. I didn’t want to lose what we already had, but that was rather selfish of me. You’re right, you deserved to know how I felt. If I misinterpreted your signals as of late, then I— I understand completely if this makes you uncomfortable, and if you’d rather not associate outside of our...work from here on out.”

“_ Aziraphale _ ,” Crowley ground out, endlessly irritated by Aziraphale’s obtuseness. “Where have you been? I’ve been mad about you for _ ages _.”

“Oh. Oh, fantastic!” Aziraphale brightened up as he realized what Crowley was saying.

“But why _ now _ ? You know, I _ actually _ managed to convince myself you were being literal that night you gave me the holy water. But you _ weren’t, _ were you? Sixty years ago I was going ‘too fast’ by offering you a ride, and now that we’re _ months _ from the Apocalypse, you decide to go and share your feelings‽ This is absolutely _ rubbish _ timing, you know that, right?”

“Yes, I realize that, obviously,” Aziraphale snapped a bit defensively, clearly hurt that he was being yelled at if Crowley returned his affections. “I wasn’t ready to acknowledge how close we were getting back then because I was afraid of the truth, but the fact that our time together was quickly running short gave me incentive to sit down and finally explore the depths of my feelings for you, if only for my own benefit. I didn’t want to upset or distract you at such a critical time, however. That’s why I didn’t tell you outright.”

“Then why tell me at all? Why send your ridiculous flowers instead of keeping that information to yourself like you’re supposed to?”

“Like I’m _ supposed to? _ ” he repeated indignantly. “And just what the hell is _ that _ supposed to mean?”

“Aziraphale. If we don’t pull this off, _ everything _ we know and love will be gone. Do you really think this is the time for romantic dates, or back alley snogging, or whatever it is you were hoping for?” 

“Excuse me, I don’t believe I said _ anything _about dates or snogging!”

“Oh no, you only sent me sordid little messages of _ desire _ and _ lust! _ Don’t tell me those were all pure and innocent!”

Aziraphale stood up from his armchair, glowering at Crowley. “I was only being honest about my feelings, and I couldn’t bear to bottle everything up again after coming to terms with it all. There’s nothing shameful or sinful about being attracted to someone you love! _ So sorry _ for loving you wholly, as you are.”

“Yeah, well, you _ should _be sorry!”

An awkward silence ensued, while the look on Aziraphale’s face faded from anger to realization, sadness, and finally something akin to pity, which just served to make Crowley feel much, much worse.

“Crowley—”

He rushed to wave Aziraphale off, dreading the incoming heart-to-heart. “Look, angel. We need to focus on our work right now. _ Really _ focus. Even if the Antichrist wasn’t an issue, it’d still be mad to try and pursue any kind of physical relationship when your bosses might be watching, yeah? And here’s the thing: you apparently think sexual attraction is just fine for angels. _ Shockingly. _But do you know for a fact that you’re right about that?”

Aziraphale looked a little unsure. “There’s no reason why it should be wrong,” he said, fidgeting with his coat. “And I feel—”

“But do you _ know?” _ Crowley pressed.

“Of course not! Nobody knows for certain how They feel about anything.”

“Yeah, exactly. Exactly! And more to the point, are you sure that falling in love with one of Heaven’s filthy, disgusting, fallen _ vermin _isn’t a sin?”

Aziraphale frowned, getting a bit misty eyed again. He put a gentle hand on Crowley’s cheek. Not grabbing him, or directing his head to turn in his direction, just _ touching _him in a soft, affectionate way Crowley wasn’t sure he’d ever actually experienced before.

“You’re not disgusting, Crowley. You’re not even _ bad _ .” He ignored Crowley’s token protest, continuing, “You’re a demon, but that’s a reflection of your actions in the past, not the whole of your personality. _ Please _don’t think of yourself that way.”

“Why not? Everyone else we both work with does. _ They _do.”

Aziraphale searched for the right words to say, but eventually closed his mouth in defeat. They both knew Crowley was right when it really came down to it. He was never going to be welcomed back into Heaven, or get an apology, or feel Their love again. God hadn’t even spared the fallen a second thought once they were ousted from that wretched place, as far as he could tell.

“Look, I’m not going to risk you falling for _ fraternizing _ with a demon,” Crowley finally said. “You wouldn’t like it. _ Trust _ me.”

“What? Crowley, I hardly think it works like that. It’s not _ contagious _ . Love is pure and— and _ good _ , it couldn’t possibly lead to me falling. And even if it did...Well, surely it would be worth it if it meant staying by your side. Haven’t you ever heard that love is worth fighting for?” he said softly, staring into Crowley’s eyes.

The words hit Crowley like a sucker punch to the gut. Had he really been so cavalier about his fall with Aziraphale, too quick to make a joke and reluctant to upset him with the details, that the angel thought it was no big deal? That _ anything _could possibly make up for the utter torture of your halo being scorched off and your grace being forcibly stripped away?

Or, more frightening still, did he know _ exactly _ what falling entailed and the kind of horrors he would have to endure, and yet still believed Crowley was worth pursuing despite it all? Crowley wasn’t sure what to do with that kind of devotion, but it certainly scared him a little, and he was _ positive _ it was undeserved. He shuddered, turning away from Aziraphale’s guileless eyes.

The thought of Aziraphale, the one being he knew to be _ pure _ and _ good _ through and through, being casually tossed out with disgust like a used tissue and sustaining the burning and suffering and disparity of being closed off from God’s love for eternity was nigh unbearable. If there was even the _ slightest _chance it could happen, Crowley refused to let Aziraphale entertain the notion of being with him any longer.

“...You want to know what I think? I think I never mentioned love. _ You _ brought that up,” he said with forced iciness. The words made him feel sick to his stomach, but at least he didn’t have to see Aziraphale’s reaction. He’d be heartbroken, no doubt.

“You didn’t have to. You’ve made it clear that you love me for centuries now, even if I misinterpreted it as entirely platonic until now. You’re not as subtle as you think, dear,” Aziraphale said, somehow managing to still sound cheerful in the face of Crowley’s cutting remark, the bastard.

Huh, and he was _ so _ sure that was going to work...Panicking, he asked, “Well, haven’t _ you _ever heard that demons can’t love?”

The chances of that working were slim to none, but Crowley wasn’t sure how he was meant to convince someone as stubborn as Aziraphale if preying on his emotions didn’t do the trick. Lying was his forte, but not when it came to his angel. He couldn’t go and break out the _ temptation _ voice, after all. Not with good conscience.

“I have, and I think it’s poppycock, pure and simple.” He put a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, encouraging him to turn around, although he refused and remained fixed in place. “You love plenty of things, and you’re _ in _ love with me. It’s quite clear in hindsight. Really, Crowley, _ now _ who’s not ready to acknowledge the nature of our relationship?” he scoffed.

_ “You _ , apparently, since you’ve deluded yourself into seeing something that’s not there. I’m a _ demon,” _ he spat. “I’d do my best to move on if I were you. It could never work anyways, angel. We’re too...different.”

He took another step forward, allowing Aziraphale’s hand to slide limply down his arm and away. Hopefully, that would be enough to make him drop the whole thing. He just wanted the conversation to be over already so he could drink in peace and wallow in self pity and shame.

“Oh, Crowley, _ please _. You don’t mean that. I’ll back off if that’s what you want, but I really don’t think it is.”

“Tomorrow’s my day off,” Crowley said, ignoring Aziraphale’s words and not quite looking over his shoulder. “When I come back the next day, I think it would be best for everyone if we just focused on Warlock and kept things..._ professional _ from now on. I don’t want to hear another word about this nonsense.”

* * *

For the first time since it had come into his possession, the Bentley’s engine wouldn’t turn over, stuttering and dying each time he started it up instead of purring to life.

“Oh, come on, not you too,” Crowley whined, dropping his head to the steering wheel. “What happened? Was it something I said?”

The next time he tried, the car started up in a suspiciously smooth manner. Crowley sighed. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what it is, either,” he grumbled to himself while pawing through his music selections, hoping to find a good distraction but falling short. With his limited amount of free time (and therefore driving time) these days, he’d been forgetting to take his CDs out before their fortnight was up at an alarming rate. Well, Lou Reed’s “Best of Queen” it was, then.

_ I love...she makes me _

_ She is my heart _

_ She is my love _

_ She is my love _

It had been so long since Crowley had listened to anything by Queen besides their “best” songs[3]that he didn’t even recognize it at first, but eventually the title[4] came back to him: “Stormtrooper in Stilettos.” It shouldn’t have been possible for the Bentley to play that one, even with a CD that transmogrified itself into existence.

“Oh, come off it! I wasn’t _ that _ bad. He’s just...soft. _ Sentimental. _He was refusing to understand the gravity of the situation, and he could use a good dose of reality every once in a while. And these aren’t stilettos, they’re pumps with a kitten heel, I’ll have you know,” he snarled, stomping on the accelerator with a sensibly clad foot.

The song continued to play as he left the estate and turned onto the main road.

“It was for his own good! He’d be far better off without me, and you know it. Besides, this song isn’t even on that album! Stop it!”

In an extremely rare bout of aggression toward his most prized possession, he gave the radio console a few good thunks with the heel of his hand. He was the reason percussive maintenance for electronics was a necessity every once in a while, after all.[5] Maybe it worked on semi sentient motor vehicles, too?

The Bentley shuddered a bit, somehow giving Crowley the impression of a cat arching its back and growling, but finally relented, switching suddenly to “Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy.”

“Yeah, he _ is _ one, isn’t he?” Crowley gave the car a sad smile, imagining Aziraphale carefully considering what flowers to use to send _ just _the right message to his intended. For the past few years he’d been courting him in a rather romantic, albeit severely outdated, manner, even if he never actually expected Crowley to notice. It was...cute, if Crowley was being honest for once.

...Too bad the entire planet would go up in flames and they’d both be tortured and/or destroyed by their respective bosses if they tried being honest with the world about _ everything _in regards to their situation.

The more he thought about it, the more Crowley decided Aziraphale might be right about the whole “lust isn’t a sin if it’s an extension of romantic feelings” thing, but there was still the threat of torture and/or destruction even if their plan succeeded and they averted the big war. Having to sneak off to make out in closets like rebellious teenagers and constantly looking over their shoulders for witnesses didn’t exactly sound fun, either. He loved Aziraphale, but he wasn’t sure he could do that for eternity and stay sane.

Exhausted and in a self pitying kind of mood, Crowley slept through his entire day off, not even bothering to tell off his prayer plant for the unacceptably dried up ends on its leaves. It wasn’t a century of reprieve, but it was as good as he was going to get right now. Unfortunately, it just made him feel even worse.

When he returned to the Dowling residence, he found a single white flower on the pillow of his bed. He didn’t need to look that one up; he recognized it and remembered it all too clearly from his feverish research.

_ Cyclamen: Sorrow, resignation, goodbye. “All good things must eventually come to an end.” _

* * *

1As soon as the thought occurred to him, he switched back to Nanny Ashtoreth just in case. Better to perform a small miracle now than a dozen big ones after being caught in the act. [return to text ]

2Seeing as ethereal beings are capable of working nonstop for all of eternity, angels don’t sleep, unless they fill out the requisite paperwork and turn it in in person: Form N-35-4 (Advance Notification of Intention to Sin), Form N-35-4-a (Advance Notification of Intention to Sin, Ongoing), Form 6Z-F5-9921 (Application for Permission to Sin), Form 6Z-F5-9921-d (Application for Permission to Sin, Re: Sloth), and Forms K-9703 (Work Hour Modification Proposal) and 8-G624-T (Salary Modification Proposal) to allot time in their schedule for breaks and reduce their celestial wages accordingly. Then they have to argue their case before their supervisor (Gabriel, in Aziraphale’s case) and a jury of their peers (probably Sandalphon and Michael, with his luck) and wait 3-4 centuries for approval after the case gets passed on to their supervisor’s supervisor. If their case is approved, that is. Crowley constantly sang the praises of sleep, but Aziraphale couldn’t imagine any amount of rest would counteract the kind of stress and anxiety the entire process would trigger. [return to text ]

3One tends to tire of a band when forced to listen to the same eighteen songs of theirs for decades. He didn’t even like Queen that much. He was just an emotional hostage to his beloved car’s very specific music taste. [return to text ]

4Which, it should maybe be clarified in advance, refers to Nazi Germany, not a cinematic space opera. [return to text ]

5He had been quite proud of that one at the time, too. It takes finesse to make something fail gradually in minute increments, rather than the whole thing going up in a big ball of flame, Hastur style. [return to text ]


	8. Chapter 8

Crowley still couldn’t decide if knowing Aziraphale’s true feelings made statements like “I don’t even like you” and “we’re not even friends” ridiculously absurd or even more hurtful than the angel likely intended.

Warlock (and Adam) had their birthday not even eight weeks after their confrontation. Surely Aziraphale didn’t move on and eliminate his feelings  _ that _ fast, right? Because Crowley sure hadn’t.

Once he realized how doomed the situation was, he had reneged on his vow to stay at arm’s length and instead went all in on the idea of escaping Earth altogether, of breaking free from the rules of Heaven, Hell, maybe even God themself. It was the only possible solution he could find that allowed for Aziraphale to not only live, but remain  _ happy.  _ (And that was the tricky bit, wasn’t it? No matter how the angel acted toward him, Crowley still clung to the idea that Aziraphale would be a  _ little  _ upset to see him destroyed. Survivor’s guilt, at the very least.)

So imagine how painful it was to hear Aziraphale say “no.” To more or less hear him say that he planned to join in the battle to kill Crowley’s brethren.[1]  


Aziraphale, his radiant angel, the one and only steadfast constant in what would have otherwise been a fairly miserable stint on Earth,[2] said “no.” Rejected his big plan. Altogether rejected  _ him. _

And then he went and (seemingly) died.

So all in all, Crowley had had a very trying week. And yet, all that bone-deep weariness and resentment stewing inside him ceased to matter anymore when he watched Aziraphale step inside his flat. He’d agreed to stay the night quite a while before they arrived there, of course, and had seemed amicable enough on the bus ride over when he casually took Crowley’s shaking hand in his own while apologizing for thinking Heaven would somehow have his back and sharing his clever interpretation of Nutter’s cryptic last message. But still Crowley had worried that the angel would suddenly come to his senses any second, running far, far away from him and all the complications he introduced to Aziraphale’s life.

It would be truly devastating now that he’d crossed the threshold of Crowley’s flat. For some reason, seeing Aziraphale in his dwelling just felt  _ right  _ to Crowley in a gut-certain way few things had over the millennia. The flat had always been more of a prop for him, something to dress up in a way that screamed “I’m rich and pretentious!” even if nobody ever saw it, but for the first time, it felt more like a  _ home _ . A cold, largely empty home, but who cared, as long as Aziraphale stayed?

And stayed, he did. He sipped cocoa on Crowley’s leather couch while setting the plan in motion for the next day. He sniffed out Crowley’s comparatively miniscule book collection, clucking his tongue at their beat up pages with messily scrawled notes in all the margins. He complimented Crowley on his taste in sculptures in an ambiguously flirtatious manner, politely ignored the mess left behind from Hastur and Ligur’s home invasion, held him all night long while he laid in bed and pretended that he wasn’t crying over the residual grief of losing his best friend, and if he noticed all the spotty, dead leafed,  _ imperfect  _ potted plants Crowley had supposedly destroyed enjoying a new life of independence and free will on his kitchen balcony instead, he didn’t say anything.

He didn’t say anything when Crowley found him standing in the entryway of his kitchen the next morning, either, just gave him a small, yet ridiculously sappy smile that looked horrendously out of place on his own features.

When Crowley announced that he was heading out to sort through the remnants of the bookshop to keep up appearances before they met up at the park, Aziraphale bade him goodbye and kissed him gently on the forehead, seeming to greatly enjoy having the height advantage for once.[3] And when their celebratory late lunch began to extend into early evening and they finally left the Ritz, he didn’t say goodbye or ask to be driven to his own place, but instead climbed into the Bentley almost expectantly, like it was to be assumed that he would follow Crowley wherever he was going.

There was no crying that night, but the two of them still curled around one other and held each other until morning, when Aziraphale reluctantly(!) said he should see the bookshop for himself and do inventory, check if Crowley missed any other new additions on the shelves.

“Yeah, I guess I’ve got a few errands I should run, too,” Crowley answered, already compiling a mental list of everything he needed to get. “Need a lift?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I’ll travel between dimensions. No need to burden you if you’re busy, and I hardly think Heaven will be monitoring the number of miracles I perform anymore.”

Crowley supposed that was fair, although he was a little disappointed he wouldn’t have the pleasure of driving Aziraphale today. It just wasn’t the same without his inane comments and near-constant panic. “I’ll stop by once I’m done? We can grab dinner together.”

“Sounds splendid, my dear.” This time, he pulled Crowley in with a gentle hand to his jaw and kissed him square on the cheek, right over his tattoo.

It was far from scandalous; in fact, it was rather tender and entirely chaste, but Crowley was so caught off guard he only managed to make an ugly squawking noise in response.   


Aziraphale just gave him a cheeky grin before disappearing in a flash of ethereal light.

“Right. That happened, then, I guess.”

Still dazed, Crowley stepped into the kitchen, wanting to consult his library books one last time before heading out. “You don’t need to look so happy about it, you know.” he said to the philodendron, which was still in the process of closing for the day and standing tall. “This is all very new and confusing to me, and—Hello, what’s this?”

He blinked at the unfamiliar bouquet on the counter. It was full of white and blue flowers, smelled faintly spicy, and was smack dab in the center, right behind the books, which were now arranged in neat stacks. The ones he’d left behind after confronting Aziraphale had been returned, too.

Another new addition was the assortment of bookmarks peeking out from the pages of the front stack.[4] A quick perusal suggested that each bookmarked page corresponded to one of the flowers in the crystal vase, with an angelic glow underlining the relevant sentence or two. “Huh. That’s handy.”

Lily of the Valley: A return to happiness.

Gillyflower: Contentment with life the way it currently is.

Astilbe and Aster: Patience.

Flax: A domestic symbol of home.

Azalea: Developing passion.

Primrose: “I can’t live without you.”

White violets: “Let’s take a chance on happiness.”

“Whatever. ‘S dumb,” he muttered halfheartedly at the bouquet as he sniffled and dabbed at his eyes before the tears could spill over. “Just a bunch of flowers.”

He grabbed the book he wanted and shut the kitchen door behind him as he walked out, but one phrase kept rattling through his mind as he compiled a list of everything he needed and mapped out all his stops for the day.

“‘Let’s take a chance on happiness.’ I’m damn well trying to, angel. Just gotta make everything right first,” he said to himself as he closed his laptop and grabbed his keys.

* * *

1He didn’t like them, and he sure as heaven didn’t fit in with them, but there was still a certain kind of brotherly bond there if he squinted real hard. [return to text ]

2Which, alright, yes, Crowley might have been taking for granted all this time. But Aziraphale _had_ recently stated that he would risk falling to be with him, so you’ll have to excuse Crowley if he assumed that meant he would leap at the first opportunity to actually _do_ so. [return to text ]

3Crowley, in turn, learned that Aziraphale’s vessel was _much_ quicker to blush than his own. [return to text ]

4Crowley didn’t _do_ bookmarks. He didn’t see the point, not when books were already made out of such an easily foldable material. Dogears didn’t slip out and make you lose your place when you fell asleep after reading on the ceiling and accidentally dropped the book a few meters up, either. [return to text ]


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, y'all get _two_ chapters today! I added so much while editing that I realized it was too long to remain a single chapter, and since I had already looked this part over I figured might as well post it, too.

Two hours later, Crowley climbed in and slammed the door to the Bentley, uttering a few choice insults under his breath about the teenager manning the flower shop that was giving him the stink eye through the window. “—calls himself a florist and can’t even tell the difference between blue and purple. _ ‘They’re _ ** _basically _ ** _ purple hyacinths.’ _ They were fucking _ blue, _ you reprobate! _ Amateurs, _ that’s what they all—.” 

The gritty bassline to “Another One Bites the Dust” immediately began thumping its way through the speakers as he started up the car.

“Ha, ha. Very funny,” Crowley growled, scratching the florist’s name off of his list. That was the last one in the area. Fourteen florists and nurseries, and not a single one carried the remaining plants on his list. Surely someone in England had to have a secret trove of rainflowers and Jerusalem oak, or a patch of bittersweet nightshade they were cultivating. Someone besides Brother Francis, that is.

Crowley glanced at the rearview mirror, taking in the sorry sight of the bluebells and little jonquil daffodils sitting on his backseat next to the branch he’d nicked from someone’s lemon tree. That simply would not do, not for his angel. 

Aziraphale seemed to be content to move on and act like nothing had happened as long as they were together, but Crowley still felt the need to apologize properly for once. He didn’t want to just get away with it, to skate by and let his impertinence get swept under the rug; he wanted to acknowledge that he had made a mistake and promise to do better. He wanted to make a physical representation of his remorse without relying on miracles. He wanted to _ beg _ for forgiveness. _ Egads _, Aziraphale was a terrible influence on him.

“Looks like we’re taking a roadtrip,” he said with a sigh, aiming toward Tadfield and gunning it.

He didn’t bother trying to hide the car when he arrived at the Dowlings estate. By his calculations, Mr. Dowling should have been tied up in D.C. for a few days, and Mrs. Dowling was in Paris this week for some PR stunt and a few extra days of “me time,” whatever that meant. The rest of the staff he didn’t give a damn about. And Warlock…

“...Nanny?”

Shit. Warlock had a half-day at school and would be arriving home right about now.

Crowley hadn’t bothered changing to Nanny Ashtoreth before arriving. His skintight, leather trousers provided no illusions of femininity about his bony hips, there was a distinct lack of cleavage showing where his v-neck dipped down low, and his lips were utterly bare for the first time in the boy’s presence, the harsh, thin line of them obvious without overdrawn lipstick to round them out.[1] There was no explaining away his appearance, let alone the fact that he was in the process of hacking away at the gloxinia bush by the Dowlings’s front door.

He froze, arms still outstretched, desperately hoping that children were much like T-Rexes when it came to their vision.

“...You, uh, got a haircut,” Warlock said mildly, stepping around to get a better look at him.

Crowley nodded, eyes wide with panic behind his dark glasses. Thank somebody he’d at least thought to wear _ those. _

“Are...are you going by something different now?” Warlock asked, clearly confused about the whole situation.

“Uh, Crowley, Anthony Crowley. I mean, just— just Crowley. Crowley’s fine,” he choked out, only remembering to switch to a Scottish accent a few words in. 

“Okay...and what are you doing, Crowley?”

“Um. Stealing.” He finally snipped the branch he had been grasping, dropping it matter-of-factly into Brother Francis’s wheelbarrow, which he’d also thieved from the side of the house. “I’m stealing some of your parents’ plants.”

“Oh. Does this have anything to do with Brother Francis?”

“...Don’t be silly, Warlock.” He clipped a few more branches, keeping his back to the boy.

“It’s just, Maggie and all the maids have been saying the two of you ran off together. And I know they’re just making fun of you, but you _ did _ both call to quit without warning last night after missing work for a few days? For, like, the first time _ ever? _ It just seems _ weird _ is all, and I know you’re always telling me it’s okay to make fun of people if they don’t know it, but I don’t like hearing it when they talk about you and Brother Francis like that.”

Warlock was working himself up into a real fit by the sound of it, which Crowley was entirely unprepared to deal with today. “Oh. Uh…”

“But even if you _ were _ running off together, why didn’t you at least say goodbye first? I mean, neither of you even came to my _ birthday! _”

He sounded on the verge of tears, only adding to Crowley’s confusion as he thought back to Warlock’s party. “What do you mean? We were both— _ Ohhh…” _

Warlock had no way of knowing they were present that day, and as overwhelmingly fun as the party had seemed for the boy by the end, Crowley felt guilt worming its way through his gut as he heard sniffling behind him. Evidently, their absence was still noted.

And yeah, he and Aziraphale had just shrugged it off when they realized they’d been influencing the wrong kid all this time. Six years was a teeny tiny little fraction of their lifespans so far, hardly enough to register in the long run, but they’d both forgotten that they’d been by Warlock’s side for over half of his life. He already had absentee parents, and then his next two biggest influences had just up and disappeared on him one day. 

That was pretty cruel, even for a demon.

“Look, Warlock,” Crowley said, dropping the pruning shears as he finally turned around and crouched down to give him a hug. “I’m very sorry about missing your birthday, and I’m sure Brother Francis is, too. In fact, I’ll bet he’ll be stopping by with all kinds of grand presents for you soon to make up for it,” he told him, making a mental note to pass that information on to Aziraphale. “A lot has happened in the past few days, all at once, and I think we got so wrapped up in our own business with each other that we both forgot about everyone else for a while there.”

“So...you and Brother Francis _ are _ together?” He looked hopeful all of a sudden, ecstatic almost. “Ha! I _ knew _ it! I knew I heard you call him ‘angel’ the other day! Maggie didn’t believe me, but I heard it!”

“...You know what?” Crowley asked, deciding that it was time for him to employ honesty with Warlock for once, now that he wasn’t here on the job. _ “Yes. _ We _ are _ together. You can tell that wretched harpy you call a maid that I love him very much, and we’re leaving to be together on our own terms, and I checked out all those library books so I could make him a special bouquet to tell him _ exactly _how I feel about him, which is why I’m here stealing your flowers. But listen. Never mind all that. I’m afraid I’ve been a rubbish teacher, Warlock.”

He kinda regretted all the “blood and brains” talk now that he knew Warlock wasn’t the Antichrist. He may have single handedly provided job security for a whole slew of therapists several years down the road.

“Um. Basically, don’t do anything I’ve ever told you to do. Just— just throw all those life lessons out the window and only remember Brother Francis’s. Whenever you get into a sticky situation, just ask yourself, ‘What would Nanny do?’ and then do the. Exact. _ Opposite _. Understand?”

Warlock nodded, looking more than a little puzzled by the sudden change of heart.

“I...I wasn’t exactly in a good place when I told you all that. Brother Francis is a better person than I am by far, and I’ve come to appreciate his way of doing things, even if I don’t always do them myself. I’m afraid this is going to be a case of ‘do as I say, not as I do.’ Please, _ please _ don’t kick that girl’s shins anymore, or call her names. Give her the stupid flowers, maybe she’ll like that, I don’t know. You’ll make the right call. I believe in you. You’re a good kid.”

He pulled Warlock in for another hug, damn near crushing the boy’s ribs. Despite how much he wanted to avert the apocalypse, he had never held being the (alleged) Antichrist against Warlock, nor had he managed to keep a professional distance for more than the first few weeks. He was actually rather fond of the brat. “I’m going to miss you, you little devil.”

“...So you’re really leaving for good?” Warlock finally asked, pulling back.

“‘Fraid so, love.” Crowley tucked a curl behind Warlock’s ear, just like he used to do when he was little. “We’re finally moving onto a new chapter of our lives, I think. We’ve both been focused on our work for ages. We’re finally going to be doing what _ we _want now.”

“Are you moving to the South Downs then? That’s where Brother Francis always said he wanted to retire.”

  
“...Maybe,” Crowley said, making another mental note, this one personal. Aziraphale had never mentioned a soft spot for the Downs, but it _ did _seem fitting for the two of them. “We’re still sorting everything out. Tell you what, though. A...mutual friend of ours owns a bookshop in Soho. Wherever we end up, he’ll certainly know. I’ll give you his address, and any time you want to write to us, you just send it to him, and he’ll pass it along to us, and we’ll write you, too. Maybe stop by every now and then, even. Now, how would you like to help me round up these last few flowers for Brother Francis?”

* * *

1He only ever made cosmetic changes during the transformation process, but at least Ashtoreth’s clothing gave the impression that at least _something_ on his body was made up of curves rather than acute angles. [return to text ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It kinda bothered me in the show that they just never mentioned Warlock again once they realized he was the wrong kid lol. He had his birthday and never heard from the two of them again and not even Aziraphale saw anything wrong with that, apparently.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait, folks. My mom had a knee replacement and helping take care of her every day tired me out _way_ more than I expected. I think I spent nearly every spare moment sleeping lol.

Crowley glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time, grimacing at the late hour. Aziraphale did _ not _ enjoy being made to wait for dinner, and his efforts to reconcile might be in vain if he took too much longer, but his hands simply refused to cooperate. Or maybe it was his brain that was doing a bad job visualizing things; he wasn’t sure. Either way, between the drive to and from Tadfield and a long goodbye to Warlock and all the nonsense with the florists earlier, his errands had run several hours longer than expected. But he couldn’t very well hand his angel a pile of loose cuttings and expect that to woo him sufficiently, right?

How did Aziraphale manage to make it look so easy? A sprig of greenery here, a delicate flower there, some gently folded tissue and an effortlessly criss-crossed piece of string holding it all together...In contrast, Crowley’s monstrosity probably would have looked better if he’d tossed everything in the road and told the Bentley to have at it.

“Forget it. I give up. I did my best, that has to count for something, right?”

The car didn’t answer him, seeing as he had pulled over a few miles from the book store and turned it off, but Crowley still had a sneaking suspicion he was being judged for his lack of elegance and finesse.

Some of the jonquils were drooping, their stems snapped during his struggles, and the glassine paper wrapped around the whole thing had been folded and re-folded so many times it was hopelessly rumpled, even starting to tear along the deepest creases. The twine was a series of snarls and fraying knots.

“Well, I guess it’s as good a representation of my innermost thoughts and feelings as anything, I suppose,” he sighed. “Let’s go win that angel over for good this time.”

He took a few deep breaths to quell the mounting anxiety and started the car up again, only to be immediately greeted with Queen’s “Body Language.”

Crowley wasn’t one for embarrassment the vast majority of the time, but he didn’t much care for the knowledge that the Bentley not only knew exactly what he hoped to do to Aziraphale[1], but was _ rooting _for him.

He squirmed a bit in his discomfort, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Stop it. I’m just going there to apologize and make up with him. In an _ innocent _ way. And that David Bowie CD’s only been in there for a few days, so don’t you _ dare _ change it early! This song doesn’t belong on that Queen album, anyway.”

The volume increased a few notches as Freddie began to sing.

_ Don't talk _

_ Baby don't talk _

_ Body language _

_ Give me your body _

_ Just give me your body _

_ Give me your body _

“Hey! _ Hey! _Did you hear me? This isn’t one of Queen’s greatest hits!”

When the volume only continued to increase, he slapped at the radio, switching it off entirely. The music didn’t stop.

_ You got red lips _

_ Snakes in your eyes _

_ Long legs, great thighs _

_ You've got the cutest ass I've ever seen _

_ Knock me down for a six anytime _

_ Look at me, I got of case of body language _

“When did you develop such an attitude,” Crowley grumbled, nudging the accelerator. For an eight mile ride, it seemed to be lasting _ ages _.

“Look, maybe you’re mad at me? I dunno, I can’t tell. And I don’t even know if you remember it, but for the record, I’m sorry I drove you through hellfire and let you fall apart. I was just doing what I had to, you know? But hey, you’re fine now! _ We’re _fine, right? Everything’s just...uh...tickety-boo…” he trailed off as he caught sight of the shop in the distance. His heart rate tripled.

The Bentley was relentless, though, turning the radio up so loud as he parked that the bass even seemed to reach Aziraphale’s ears as the words “body language” repeated ad finitum. Crowley could see him pacing around through the storefront window, his worried frown transforming into a joyous, clearly relieved grin as he looked up and spotted the car.

He came outside as Crowley slammed his door shut with more force than was strictly necessary.

“Oh, thank heavens! Is everything alright? You were gone so long I was starting to get worried. I didn’t want to bother you and call your mobile phone, but I actually thought...well, it seems silly now that you’re here, but I thought maybe you were having second thoughts about...all of this,” Aziraphale said, shrinking into himself more and more as he spoke, avoiding Crowley’s eye. “About...well, me. I wasn’t going too fast for you, was I? I never intended to make you uncomfortable, but it occurred to me today that perhaps you still wanted to pursue a more _ professional _ relationship—”

Crowley chuckled, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of it all. “Angel. _ Aziraphale _ . In what realm of existence could a kiss on the cheek _ possibly _ count as ‘too fast’ after knowing someone for _ six thousand years?” _

“When it happens not even two months after one party says it could never work between them, perhaps?” Aziraphale asked pointedly, arching an accusatory brow at Crowley. “And then says they want to focus exclusively on being the Antichrist’s nanny for the foreseeable future?”

“Right. Um, I may have been exaggerating the differences between us. Outright lying, even. For your own protection, mind you, and maybe, uh, self-preservation, too. By the way, speaking of nannies— Nah, you know what? Remind me to talk to you about Warlock later. That can wait. I actually have something important I wanted to give you.”

_ That _ got Aziraphale’s attention. He perked up as he watched Crowley come around to his side and rummage around in the car.

“Now, don’t get your hopes up, because I did it all myself, no miracles. _ Surprisingly tricky _, this flower arranging stuff. That Senkei guy always made it look so easy. Who knew arranging galaxies would be easier?”

When he turned around, awkwardly large[2] bouquet in one hand and a decent sized hazel branch full of unripe filberts in the other[3] in the other hand, he was just a tiny bit let down by Aziraphale’s reaction, to be quite honest. There was no swooning, no passionate exclamations of “Oh, _ Crowley _!” or “Take me now, you magnificent serpent!”

No, instead Aziraphale just stood and stared, a look of bewilderment, mild disappointment, and _ possibly _horror written clearly on his features as he took in the bedraggled greenery.

“I thought you _ liked _ plants, Crowley. Why would you treat them— _ oh _ ,” he breathed, letting out a soft gasp as the realization hit him. He stepped in close and brushed his fingers against Crowley’s where they wrapped around the stems. “ _ Oh. _ Gloxinia? Gladiolus? Love at first sight? _ Truly? _ ” he asked quietly, hopefully.

Crowley dropped the hazel, instead placing his hand on the small of Aziraphale’s back and reeling him in close enough to press against him from the pelvis down. “Mmhmm. The only reason I struck up that first conversation is because those white curls caught my eye from afar, and when you admitted to disobeying God, I _ really _ took an interest. Then it rained and you immediately drew me close and covered me with your wing, absolutely no hesitation to be near me at all, and it was like falling all over again, only this time the flames felt _ good _ ,” he groaned, dropping his forehead to meet Aziraphale’s and closing his eyes. “I kept thinking it’d get better, but then you just— you just kept giving me _ more _ to fall in love with.” He sighed and dragged his eyes open to stare straight into Aziraphale’s, even if it ramped the discomfort of his vulnerability up tenfold. “I’m sorry for how I reacted the last time we tried to have this conversation, angel. I really do love you, and I’d very much like to give it another shot, if you’d have me.”

“If I’d _ have _ you? Mmm,” Aziraphale mused, a wry smile sliding into place as he pulled back a bit to study the bouquet once more. “Let’s see.” His voice had dropped in pitch and had a touch of gravel in it now. “Lemon blossoms: ‘I promise to be faithful in love.’ Yes, I have no doubt about it. Jonquils and Jerusalem oak: ‘Your affection is reciprocated; Love me.’ Of course. Without hesitation, dear. Rain lilies: ‘I love you back; I must atone for my sins.’ Oh. _ Have _you, though, darling?” he breathed hotly into Crowley’s ear, leaning in close once more. “Atoned for all your sins?”

“Ngk,” Crowley sputtered, bringing his other hand around to lock both behind Aziraphale for support as his knees went wobbly. The various twigs were probably digging into the angel’s back, but he didn’t seem to mind, unbridled delight at Crowley’s reaction sparkling in his eyes despite the suggestively cruel slant of his lips.

Crowley’s mind had overheated and was no longer capable of critical thinking, but he certainly wasn’t feeling very pure of soul at the moment. In fact, he felt pretty damn sinful. Lust was still a big no-no, wasn’t it? One of the deadly ones?

He shook his head, eyes wide as he waited for Aziraphale’s response with equal parts trepidation and giddiness. He couldn’t _ wait _to explore this previously unknown side of his fussy, prim little angel.

“Ah, I thought not. Come, we’ve got some catching up to do then, love.” With a single hand gesture, the door to the shop opened back up and the sign flipped itself to “closed” as Aziraphale stepped inside.

Crowley rushed to pick up the abandoned hazel branch and hurry in after him, gulping as he heard the door lock behind them. The flames were back now, licking through his body and making him feel warm and flushed right down to his toes, burning even brighter when Aziraphale cast him a lustful glance over his shoulder. At this rate, they threatened to consume him entirely before the evening was over.

Frankly, he couldn’t wait.

* * *

1Or have Aziraphale do to him. He wasn’t picky. [return to text ]

2Perhaps he should have narrowed down his options a bit instead of attempting to cram _all_ of his unsaid feelings in there. [return to text ]

3He simply could _not_ find a way to incorporate it, but refused to give up the one and only symbol of reconciliation he managed to get his hands on. There were no Star of Bethlehem flowers to be found in the greater London area, apparently, and hydrangeas had far too many contradictory meanings to even consider including them. [return to text ]


End file.
